Chapter 58
Fifty-Eight
Beckett
I’ve seen Madison dismantle a room full of grown men without raising her voice.
Right now, she’s pacing my kitchen in an oversized cream knit sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder, black tailored trousers, and her granny slippers.
“Beckett, seriously, look at me.”
I stop dicing the onions and look.
She’s got one hand in her hair, the other pressed to her stomach. She looks like she’s going to be sick.
“Should I have changed? Is this too much or too little? Do I look approachable or intimidating?”
“Madi—”
“She’s going to hate me.”
“She’s not.”
She flashes me a manic, wide-eyed grin. “How’s my smile? Too much? Too toothy? God, I’m going to vomit.”
“Madison, you need to calm down,” I say, trying to keep amusement out of my voice. “My mother isn’t opposing counsel.”
“Mothers hate me. I’m too loud, I’m too blunt, and I have no domestic skills. I’m a mother’s worst nightmare.”
She starts pacing the length of the kitchen again, the slippers shuff-shuffing against the hardwood. She brought five pairs of heels up from her apartment earlier, and they’re currently lined up against my sofa because she couldn’t commit to a single pair.
“Madison—”
“I just—I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. What if I blurt something insane?”
“Like what?” I ask, still chopping, because if I stop moving, I might laugh.
“Like what if I say, ‘Beckett is amazing in bed,’ when what I’m really supposed to say is, ‘I’m madly in love with your son’?”
The knife stops mid-air.
She keeps going.
“Because I will panic. And I panic-say things. And then she’ll think I’m vulgar. Or worse, she’ll think I’m unserious. Or—”
“Say that again.”
“What?”
I set the knife down. “What you just said.”
She blinks. “What? That you’re great in bed?”
I step toward her. “No. The next part.”
She takes a step back. “That I—”
Another step from me. Another retreat from her.
“That I might—”
She hits the wall, and her breath catches.
“That I’m madly in love with you,” she whispers.
I don’t give her a chance to overthink it. I lean in and kiss her, letting my hands slide into her hair. The world, and the impending arrival of my mother and the man I’m still not sure I’m ready to call my stepfather, disappears.
She tastes like wine and panic and everything I’ve ever wanted.
Her sweater rides up beneath my palm, and she makes this soft, desperate sound that goes straight to my spine.
Before either of us can get carried away, she stops.
I let out a groan and try to kiss her again, but she ducks under my arm.
“Stop that,” she orders.
“Stop what?”
“Now is not the time for you to be horny.”
I blow out a breath and drop my head.
Trying to calm my pulse, I turn, hoping to get back to my chopping when she freezes. Her eyes drop and widen.
“Goddammit, Beckett.”
I glance down at my crotch.
Oh.
“Do something with that,” she whisper-hisses, like that will make it better.
“What the hell do you want me to do with it?”
“I don’t know!” she shrieks. “What do you usually do?”
I raise a brow.
“Oh, you horny fucker.”
“That is not—”
“Your mother is about to knock on that door, and you are pitching a tent in your trousers while I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush.”
“You look loved.”
My attempt to love her into submission doesn’t work either.
She resumes pacing.
“Great. Fantastic. Perfect timing. I confess my undying love, you attack my face, and your mother is five minutes away.”
I adjust myself discreetly.
She notices.
“Stop adjusting it. It’s like you’re negotiating with it.”
I laugh despite myself.
“This is not funny,” she snaps.
“It’s a little funny.”
She stops pacing and looks at me. “Why aren’t you freaking out right now?”
“Why would I freak out?”
“Because your mother is coming here with the man she was spanking with a spatula in her kitchen the last time you saw them.”
The color drains from my face.
We both glance down at my crotch.
Madison blinks. “Well, that worked.”
I swallow hard. “I’m going to be sick.”
Now I’m pacing.
She’s pacing in the opposite direction.
Neither of us can catch our thoughts long enough to keep them in one place.
Then there’s a tap, tap, tap at the door, and we almost collide.
We slowly look at each other then we both glance down again.
“Okay,” she says firmly. “It’s down. That’s good. That’s manageable.”
“Please stop assessing my cock like it’s a medical case.”
One of us needs to get their shit together before we answer the door, so I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her to me.
“Don’t you dare stop loving me because your mother does,” she whispers, and it’s the first time I see true fear peeking through the panic.
“That’s not how this works.”
Because nothing could stop me from loving her. One day, she’ll believe that. Until then, I’ll just show her how much I mean it.
But right now, I need to face my spatula-loving mother.
“Ready?” I murmur against her mouth.
“No, but let’s do it anyway.”
When I open the door, my mother stands there, elegant as always. Tom looms behind her, holding a bottle of red.
I try to get the images of him bent over my childhood kitchen counter out of my head and remember he’s the man who has always been there for me.
It might take a minute.
“Hi, Mom. Tom. Come in.”
I kiss her cheek as she steps inside. Tom gives me a small nod that says, You’re about to be evaluated.
I gesture toward the center of the living room.
“Mom, Tom, this is Madison.”
Madison stands tall, her shoulders back and chin lifted.
My mother’s eyes land on her face first.
Then her outfit.
Then… her feet.
Madison follows her gaze. I watch as realization hits.
She never changed her footwear.
Her eyes snap to mine like I personally forced those slippers onto her body.
“Oh, thank God,” my mother says, relieved. She kicks off her heels. “I have been suffering for the last hour. I was trying to make a good impression, but my arches are killing me.”
I think the pressure has finally gotten to that beautiful woman of mine because she throws her head back and barks a laugh. The tension drains from her shoulders so fast I can almost see it happen.
My mother steps forward and kisses Madison’s cheek like they’ve known each other for years.
“It smells wonderful in here.”
Madison glances at me over my mother’s shoulder, eyes sparkling with disbelief. They head toward the kitchen, already linked at the elbows.
“What are we having?” my mother asks.
Madison leans closer. “Honestly? I have no idea. I can’t cook to save my life. I’m here for moral support and wine.”
My mother laughs and pats her hand. “My son tells me you’re brilliant. That’s far more useful than cooking skills.”
Madison looks back at me again, her eyes gone soft.
I shrug.
I said what I said.
In the kitchen, my mother sets her bag down and reaches inside. “I never gave you a proper housewarming gift when you moved in.”
Tom gives me a sympathetic look, which isn’t comforting.
I tear the paper off the box.
Inside is a sleek set of high-end kitchen utensils.
On top, in all its glory, is a heavy-duty spatula.
Madison makes a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a choke.
My mother’s lips twitch.
Tom looks at the ceiling.
Madison steps into my space and wraps her arms around my waist.
“He’s still a little traumatized,” she tells my mother.
I stare down at the weapon in my hand.
Madison tilts her head up at me, entirely at ease now, and just like that, whatever battlefield she’d imagined walking into is gone.
I lean down and kiss the top of her head, pulling her flush against my side.
“Very funny,” I grumble, though I can’t stop the smile. “Everyone’s a comedian.”